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Abstract
image&utm_content=3694263">Ksenia Sergeeva</a> from <a href="https://pixabay.com/?utm_source=link-attribution&utm_medium=referral&utm_campaign=image&utm_content=3694263">Pixabay</a></figcaption></figure><p id="9f64">The dead whisper homilies, falsities, word upon word,</p><p id="754d
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">murmuring poets, standing from bed head to death’s head, night unto the light.</p><p id="ca67">They press their fingers upon and through me.</p><p id="a88d">I was a child once, then I heard her keening and she was gone.</p><p id="0f7b">The dead whisper to their own, in poetry.</p></article></body>
The dead whisper homilies, falsities, word upon word,
murmuring poets, standing from bed head to death’s head, night unto the light.
They press their fingers upon and through me.
I was a child once, then I heard her keening and she was gone.
The dead whisper to their own, in poetry.
